


up where they stay all day in the sun

by emmaofmisthaven



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Selkies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-28 13:02:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5091755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaofmisthaven/pseuds/emmaofmisthaven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She wipes away the tears as she raises her head, only to find a man standing there.<br/>A very naked man.<br/>Her eyes widen at the sight of him, body tan and wet, dark hair falling in front of his eyes, most scandalous bits covered by – Emma blinks, because it looks like fur. Grey fur with little brown dots, silk-like in its wetness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	up where they stay all day in the sun

Emma breaks up with Walsh at the beginning of the summer, which is both a blessing and a curse. A curse, because she breaks up with him when she learns their entire relationship was a scam, and she was only a glorified alibi to him in his business with Zelena Mills. A blessing, because Elsa presses keys into her palm and tells her to use the cottage for the summer, fresh air will do her some good.

Fresh air. In Norway.

Now, Emma has lived with the Arendelles for almost two decades – ever since Ingrid took her in, then adopted her – but never has she actually visited Norway. The women in her family talk about it with happy sighs in their voice and melancholy in their eyes, and it has always left Emma pensive. She doesn’t understand what this is about, but maybe she can. Maybe she and Henry can spend the summer break in Norway, away from everything, and maybe she can come back to Boston in September, a little less broken.

So she packs her suitcases, buys plane tickets, and off to Norway they go. It is the stuff of postcards, of course, the lovely little cottage in an even lovelier fjord, everything green and blue and perfect. Henry takes off the moment he’s had a good night of sleep after their flight – jetlag obviously not taking its toll on him, lucky brat – and Emma is left alone in a cottage too big for her, with thoughts too dark for her own good.

She wraps a plaited blanket around her shoulders, and goes to sit by the water. It doesn’t help with her clouded thoughts, and doesn’t keep Walsh’s betrayal off her mind – she should have known, it was too good to be true, _she should have known_ – but at least the landscape is pretty, and she’d rather sulk in a Norwegian fjord than in her sad little Boston apartment.

She bites down on her lip, swallowing down the feelings before they overwhelm her. Emma has managed not to cry so far, not since she learnt of Walsh’s true nature – she’s been handling it, if not fine, at least well enough. Well, she thought she was, but truth is she’s just been living in denial for the past two weeks or so, pretending like nothing happened and like she is fine. She’s everything but.

She’s everything but, and the feelings come back now, bubbling at the surface until they pour out of her in a broken sob. She presses her fingers to her lips, as if to stop her cries, but the tears are already pearling at the corners of her eyes, rolling down her cheeks to die at the on  her mouth, hot and salty. Now that she started, she doesn’t seem to be able to stop, and she tightens her hold on the blanket around her as she hides her face into her bended knees.

She doesn’t know how long she stays there, maybe minutes or maybe hours, but she does know she jumps out of her skin when she hears, “Are you all right?”

She wipes away the tears as she raises her head, only to find a man standing there.

A very naked man.

Her eyes widen at the sight of him, body tan and wet, dark hair falling in front of his eyes, most scandalous bits covered by – Emma blinks, because it looks like _fur_. Grey fur with little brown dots, silk-like in its wetness. She blinks, again, but the vision doesn’t go away and the man takes a step closer to her, frowning in what appears to be worry.

Emma wants to stand up and run away, because it definitely is a naked man in front of her, approaching her – she carries mace in her purse, she knows a thing or two about self-defence and knowing when to not engage with threatening men. But, truth is, she’s rooted to the spot even as he kneels in front her her and tilts his head to the side.

He looks like a puppy. A very wet, very human puppy. And he smells like seaweeds.

Her mouth opens, once, twice, but no sound comes out of it at first. She remembers those tales she used to read to Henry at night, before bedtime, from the huge book Mary Margaret had offered for his third birthday. There were the classics, of course, but other ones too, ones she had never heard before. She knows them all by heart now, the book’s pages used and yellowed by fingerprints. She – it doesn’t make sense, the idea forming in her head. It doesn’t make sense and –

“You’re a selkie.”

It doesn’t sound like a question. Hell, it isn’t a question because, no matter how crazy and illogical it is, no matter if her brain screams at her that such creatures don’t exist, Emma knows it to be the truth. It’s crazy, illogical, nonsensical, but so would have been her fiancé using her for his crimes not three weeks ago. Emma is starting to reconsider all kinds of logic, right now.

“So you’ve heard of us. Not many humans do.”

“I have a son,” she replies.

He hums under his breath and nods, apparently all the explanation he needs – and all the proof she needs to say that, yes, she’s definitely facing a mythological creature straight out of Celtic legends. Because, apparently, that’s what her life has become.

(Perhaps it’s something in the air and she’ll wake up from the dream.)

(Norway, right?)

“You didn’t answer my question, lass.”

“You’re an actual, freaking _seal_.”

He smirks at her, mischief dancing in the blue of his eyes – they look a little inhuman from up close, which makes sense if he isn’t human – but the playful look turns into a frown when she makes for brushing her fingers against the pelt around his body. He leans back slightly, just enough to convey the message, and Emma grimaces as she hides her hand beneath the blanket once more. Okay, no touchey then.

“Why are you here?” she asks next.

He smiles, a little sad and a little concerned. “Your tears fell into the ocean. It is my duty to make sure you are all right.”

She laughs around the tears that are still dying on her cheeks, and chokes a little on the sob stuck at the back of her throat. Nobody has asked her if she was all right, since everything started – her family knows better, they know she will deflect at best and dig her heels in at worse. She could see the worried glances sent her way, can see how her son still tiptoes around her like she’s a ticking time bomb.

“I’m clearly not,” she replies. “And I don’t know how a mermaid can help.”

“ _Selkie_.” He pouts, and it’s the most adorable thing she’s ever seen – probably because he still reminds her of a puppy. Which makes sense. Seals are sea dogs, basically, right? “Now, find me some garments and I’ll see what I can do.”

“What’s with the outdated speech?”

“ _Clothes_ , woman.”

 

…

 

He introduces himself as Killian, once he’s wearing her sweatpants and a shirt that has always been too big for her – it fits him alright, even if the pants stop above his ankles and he insists on walking barefoot. The cottage is clean but for sand everywhere, so Emma doesn’t see a problem in that. She’s decided that she was going to shrug off everything out of the ordinary anyway, because there’s a freaking selkie in her kitchen, eating raw salmon out of the fridge. Ordinary jumped out the window a long time ago, seriously.

“Aren’t you supposed to be from Ireland or something?” she asks once she’s poured herself a glass of wine. She takes a long sip, because she needs it.

He waves his bad hand at her – it looks a little like the thing Nemo has, but she’s tactful enough not to ask – and shrugs. “I like to travel. Also, cold waters are good for your skin.”

Emma rolls her eyes, and gulps down a larger amount of wine. She’s relieved Henry is god knows where for the day, because she has no idea how she would explain that to him without sounding like she needs medical help. Instead, she’s left alone in her cottage, with a man too handsome for his own good, and too inhuman for her own good. She’s read the tales. She knows they never end well for the human, once the selkie goes back to the sea.

(At least he doesn’t seem keen of going full mermaid on her.)

(That’s good, right?)

Killian comes closer to her, trapping her body between his own and the kitchen counter. Emma blinks up at him, surprised by his boldness, but she at least manages to put her glass down on the counter before he does anything more – which is good, because his next move is to caress her arm, knuckles against her bare skin, and it sends a shiver down her spine. His hand is cold and still a little wet, but she doesn’t care when it sets her body on fire in the most delicious ways.

“He didn’t deserve you,” Killian whispers to her ear before his lips brush her cheek, and the only reason Emma doesn’t question him, doesn’t ask how he knows, is because she just stops thinking altogether.

Instead she leans toward him, breasts against his chest, breathing him in – he still smells like salt and seaweed and, when her lips find his, he tastes like that too. He tastes wonderful, tilting his head to the right angle as to deepen the kiss, cold fingers sneaking beneath her top and resting on the small of her back.

He doesn’t go further than that, but it doesn’t stop Emma from being breathless when she breaks away from the kiss. Her lips are tingling and cold when she presses her fingers to them, Killian’s arms wrapped around her waist as he pulls her to him. She has no idea why she is accepting his comfort – so far from her usual, careful behaviour – but it feels like the right thing to do when she leans her forehead against his shoulder and lets him hug her tightly. It feels right, familiar, which is exactly why she shouldn’t draw comfort from it. Emma knows better than to think happiness, even the smallest kind, can last with her.

“In the legends…” she starts.

Killian shakes his head, chin resting on top of hers. “Don’t think of the legends now. Don’t think of anything at all.”

So she doesn’t. Instead, she pulls him into another kiss, deeper, hungrier. Henry probably won’t be back before sunset, and it’s the last thought Emma has before she tugs on Killian’s shirt, before she tugs on his arm and pulls him toward the stairs, toward her bedroom.

 

…

 

She wakes up, even if she hadn’t meant to sleep, and her bedroom is casted in shadows. It takes a few seconds to understand that Henry coming home woke her up, front door slamming behind him and his loud footsteps echoing through the silent cottage. He calls after her at the same time Emma’s fingers reach for Killian next to her.

She only finds cold sheet, damp to the touch. The smell of seaweed lingers in the air even as she closes her eyes against the reality of it all. She doesn’t need to check, know the pelt he put on the back of a kitchen chair is long gone now, and him with it.

Emma lets out a shaky breath, and goes downstairs.

 

…

 

They pack their suitcases on the last week of August.

It feels weird, leaving this place she called her home for two months, and Emma now understand the melancholy her family feels toward this place. Even Henry is sad to go, but it has more to do with not wanting to go back to school and not wanting to leave his girlfriend behind than anything else – of course he found a girlfriend there, Emma thinks as she rolls her eyes playfully.

She moves from her bedroom to the bathroom to check one last time that they haven’t forgotten anything, calling after Henry to tell him to check on the living room, too. He agrees rather loudly as she opens the cabinets, and Emma mumbles ‘Indoor voice’ beneath her breath with a sigh. She grabs the bottle of shampoo she finds there, and the box with her contact lenses on the counter, before she goes back to her room and –

Stops in her tracks with a gasp.

The pelt lies on her bed, perfectly folded – the grey of it a sharp contrast against the white linen. She takes a tentative step closer, then another, until she stands in front of the bed, fingers reaching for the pelt. It is soft and silky to the touch, and warmer than she would have expected, but mostly it sends a jolt of _something_ up her arm, startling her.

“It’s yours,” comes his voice behind her.

Emma closes her eyes and breathes slowly, before she turns around to face him. He stands in the doorframe, as if not totally certain he is welcomed inside her bedroom again, sheepish smile on his lips – at least he’s not naked this time, she thinks bitterly, if only not to grow angry at him, at how he left without even saying goodbye.

“It’s yours to the taking,” he says again, nodding to his pelt. “If you’ll have me.”

She knows the legends, she has read them all.

“You won’t be able to go to the ocean again,” she replies, and shakes her head.

She won’t do that to him. Emma has never considered herself a selfish person, mostly because there was never anything to be selfish about, but even then this is beyond anything she could ever do – she can’t take him away from the sea, can’t force him by her side and hold him prisoner just because she wants to. This sounds horrible, leaves her nauseous just thinking about it.

“I’m offering,” Killian goes on, and moves closer to her. “The ocean lost its appeal after I met you.”

“I can’t – Killian, I can’t…”

“You can and you will.” He leans forward to grab his pelt, all but shoves it into her arms. Emma grabs it and holds it to her chest, as if to protect it to the world. “I know you feel it too.”

It’s too much, too soon, too – too everything, leaving Emma lost and breathless, panicking. She can’t do this, whatever this is. She can’t accept the pelt when she knows it is accepting more than that, can’t agree on the spot to what seems like the kind of commitment she has always feared and avoided. She can’t look into his eyes, and deal with the way her heart racing against her weakness.

She can’t accept, but can’t refuse either.

“Find me,” she says, and gives him his pelt back. “We’re leaving today. Find me, and we’ll see.”

 

…

 

He does.

She keeps his pelt, and him.


End file.
